


A Captain's Command

by Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Cassian Andor-centric, Enemies to Lovers, Hurt Cassian Andor, M/M, Post-Star Wars: A New Hope, Rivals to Lovers, rogue one everyone lives au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-04 23:23:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16799107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome/pseuds/Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome
Summary: Shortly after the awards ceremony on Yavin IV, Han Solo is sent to comfort and boost the morale of an injured Cassian Andor. The encounter... does not go as planned, considering that the two captains are about as opposite as can be, while still remaining on the side of the Rebellion. Sparks fly.





	A Captain's Command

**Author's Note:**

  * For [days4daisy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/gifts).



They made the fierfeking smuggler an officer. No, not just an officer He was a war hero now. A war hero, for flying in at the last minute and shooting down a couple imps. A classic case of right place, right time. It's not heroism. That was just good flying and better aim.

Nothing Cassian hadn't done.

But Cassian was no hero. Not in the battle against the Death Star. Not anymore. And maybe, he was never really a hero. Just a spy and an assassin, the two roles no army particularly liked to award a medal to. Maybe he could have turned into a hero, if not with his actions getting the plans, then maybe if he'd been able to fly out against the Death Star. But he was stuck on bed rest, stuck with very foggy memories of how he managed to get off that damn planet in time, stuck with no hope that he'd be able to help any more with the rebellion he’d already dedicated his life to.

A new voice cuts into the silence of the med bay, followed by the clicking of boots against a cold stone floor. “anything you need, uh, champ?” The voice had a drawl he didn’t quite recognize, and sounded a bit like the way a too-big pair of boots feels. Like the speaker knew he has no damned way of saying the right thing, but was going to try anyway.

It was the sort of voice that made Cassian keep his eyes closed, pretending to still be recovering. He’d had some time to learn that skill, after all. The Scarif rescue mission had saved them, in the sense that it got them off that doomed little planet, but they all carried wounds from their fight. And not all of the wounds were one a medical droid could treat.

In fact, it was those wounds, of the mind and spirit, that hurt worse than Cassian’s slowly repairing ribs. A sense of failure, of having never been good enough for the Rebellion, let alone for his friends, had wound its way around every breath he took, as if cords of shame were wrapped around his lungs.

That feeling of failure had only grown when he hadn’t been able to stand, let alone to pilot a ship, when it was time to attack the Death Star.

The others had gone.

They’d come back, too.

They’d come back, in his eyes, as grander heroes than some washed up smuggler ever could be. Because Jyn, Bodhi, all of them, they knew exactly what they were up against, and they’d still stood once more against the darkness. They, who had been given another shot at life, risked it once more for the Rebellion.

And the commanders given the damned medal to a smuggler instead.

Jyn had tried to explain something about medals and rewards and over the comm link to him, but he’d thrown it against the wall in his fury. And given that he’d re-broken his leg trying to get out of the bed yesterday, he at least knew better than to try to get up for a stupid communication tool today. She’d said she didn’t want a medal. Didn’t deserve it.

Bantha shit. He was pretty sure it had more to do with the fact the whole Rebellion had seen her kiss the princess and maybe the princess didn’t wanna look like she was playing favorites. Which, maybe, was a little fair. But she, and the rest of his friends, they deserved the medal more than any smuggler.

“Uh, buddy.” The voice said again. “Um.”

The discomfort was so apparent that he finally opened his eyes. He noticed the hands first. Long fingers nervously tapping the black-clothed leg. They looked like the hands of a mechanic, but a skilled one. Someone who could build something new out of something shattered. Someone who prided himself on fixing things.

His gaze traveled up the hand, to an arm covered by a white shirt that looks suspiciously like one of Cassian’s white shirts.

Was this stranger… wearing his shirt?

Then, he noticed the black vest, and put it all together. Even before he saw the massive golden metal gleaming on the man’s chest, he knew.

This was Han Solo. The smuggler who somehow deserved to be called a hero.

“Don’t call me buddy.” Cassian muttered.

It was most certainly not his shirt. Han was a good deal broader than him, and taller too. But it was the sort of working man’s shirt a good number of humanoids wore, and that bothered him. Shouldn’t Han be all decorated in some fancy getup? Maybe some Nabooian water silk or a flowing cloak from Bashii’s tapestry monks? 

Why did he look so… normal?

“I don’t wanna be here.” Han said.

“Yes, I’m pretty sure we all heard you say that. Even echoed in the med bay. Not your rebellion and all that.” Cassian stared up at the ceiling.

“Not what I meant. I’m here. To, you know. Inspire you. Be, I dunno. Someone to cheer up you folks in the med bay. It wasn’t my damned idea, I’ll tell you that.”

Cassian let out a short bark of a laugh, his accent stronger with the pain killers and his fury. “Inspire me? Inspire me to, what, put myself first? Make myself into a hero?”

“I’m no hero!” Han’s voice cracked sharp in the empty room, his frustration so audible it hurt to hear. He knew that frustration, that feeling, all too well. _I'm no hero. I did what I had to do. Anyone could have done it._ A thousand things Cassian had muttered, in this very room, to anyone who'd asked him what had happened on Scarif. He'd never expected to hear those words said by someone else. “Look. Bud.”

“Cassian. Captain Cassian Jeron Andor.” He gritted his full name out, every syllable feeling so pointless, so hard-won, and in the end, so meaningless. What was a captain without a crew? A pilot with no way to fly a ship? Even his own name felt like a failure, because those who had given it to him would be so disappointed in him, in so many, many ways.

“Captain.” Han said the title without an ounce of sarcasm. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yeah.” Cassian turned, slowly, to face him, looking up into hazel eyes. The nervousness he saw there did nothing to quell his annoyance. “You can kiss my ass.”

There was a long, long pause. “That a challenge, then?” Han’s jaw set.

“Might be.”

“yes or no, _Captain.”_

“Do it, _General.”_ He fired back, and enjoyed how the title made Han flinch. What he hadn’t expected was for Han to bend over him, swiftly, and tug down the soft fabric of his trousers, just a little. Cassian's skin prickled at the feeling of cool air on his most intimate area. There were still bacta patches covering most of his skin, but Han found an unmarred place on his rear, close to his hipbone, and swiftly planted a kiss there.

Heat rose into Cassian’s cheeks. The stubble of the man's cheek had brushed against him, waking nerves that had long been dormant. 

Han tugged the trousers back into place. “That good enough for you?”

“It’s a start.” Cassian studied Han, seeing the same flush in him, and feeling quite proud of himself. He wasn’t used to being outranked so thoroughly. He wasn’t used to wanting someone who had all the authority, all the power, in the situation.

He had no idea it would turn him on so much.

Cassian watched him, for a moment longer, before drawling, “I’ve got something else for you to kiss, General.”

“Yeah, well. Let’s get one thing straight.”

There didn’t seem to be anything straight about this situation, but he kept that comment to himself, as Han sat on the edge of the bed. “I ain’t a general. All right? I turned the title down. Not mine to take.”

“You received a military medal.”

“Yeah. I’m a captain, same as you.” Han paused, and dug in the pocket of his vest. “And same as me, you get some of this awful heavy jewelry to wear around, whenever.”

The golden circle hung from the strap now wrapped around Han’s hands. He knew it was what he wanted, what had made him so mad not to have, not for his sake, but for his friend’s. But in that moment, all he could look at were Han’s hands. Strong, callused, confident hands. The type he desperately wanted on his skin.

Cassian swallowed, hard. His fingers twisted in the rough sheets of the bed, as desire burned hotter and hotter within him. Han said, “I heard what you did. Back on Scarif, and before that too. You’re a hero. Better man than me, that’s for sure.”

He wished the words hadn’t mattered so much to hear. That the praise didn’t feel just as good as those hands would, skimming over his so-long-untouched skin, warming him through and dispelling that fear of failure. But they did matter. He clung to the praise as a life raft, holding tight to it, cherishing it more than the medal.

“You’re not half bad yourself, Captain Solo,” he muttered. “At least, not in terms of looks. Still think a drunk Trandoshan in heat would make a better pilot than you.”

“That so?” Han set the medal aside. His hand skimmed up Cassian’s leg, gentle. Careful especially whenever he touched a bacta patch. So gentle, it shocked him. And then, when he reached Cassian’s core, the touch turned far less gentle. It was demanding, and urgent, and so damn good.

Cassian bit his lip as Han worked him through the fabric. His hands were skilled. Not just at rebuilding, but at taking apart, too. Because it was Cassian’s ability to think clearly, or even to speak, that Han’s touch was rapidly dissembling.

Then Han tugged Cassian’s trousers below his hips. The air was cool for only a second, before those warm strong hands began to work him once more. “H-han.” Cassian stammered out.

A smile appeared on the man’s sharp-featured face. “That’s Captain Solo to you.”

Cassian smirked back, finding his words once more. “Fine, then. Captain Solo? Suck my dick.”

And it felt much, much better than a medal, when he did.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are very welcome and make my day! Thank you for reading


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